


Well Begun is Half Done

by actualite



Category: Baseball RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Boston Red Sox, M/M, Texas Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualite/pseuds/actualite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian has a terrible day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well Begun is Half Done

Ian woke up from an extremely fitful sleep at a little after 11. For some reason he had not been able to get comfortable in the hotel bed. They were staying in a new hotel in Boston and the pillows were bad and the temperature of the room way too hot. He'd gotten twisted in the tightly tucked sheets and the mattress was lumpy. He felt itchy and hot and exhausted, but at least he still had a couple hours to get breakfast and get to Fenway.

Or did he? Suddenly Ian sat bolt upright. "Fuck!" he said out loud. They were supposed to play a double header today. Ian jumped out of bed frantically, checking his phone to make sure the clock on the bedside table wasn't wrong. It wasn't. Why hadn't the wake-up call worked?

He rushed madly around his room, stubbing his toe on a table leg and cursing in pain. He decided he didn't have time for a shower, so he brushed his teeth cursorily and took a leak, shaking his dick out quickly before stuffing it back in his briefs. He pulled on a shirt and some shorts and grabbed his phone, rushing out of his room, glad today wasn't a travel day and he didn't need to be packed. Of course the team bus was long gone and everyone else was probably already at the park. If he was late he'd be fined, which wasn't really a big deal, but it'd be a smear on his perfect and punctual attendance record.

The doorman hailed him a cab and Ian climbed in. "Fenway, player's entrance," he told the cab driver, and sat back. He had a bitch of a headache, probably from not sleeping well. He needed some pills. His phone kept chirping with several texts from Tess that he ignored, unable to face the prospect of getting into yet another Conversation about where their relationship was going and whether or not the marriage counseling they were doing was working. "I have a fucking day job," he wanted to shout at the phone, and he didn't realize he'd said it out loud until he saw the cab driver turn his head to look back at him strangely.

Ian sank down in his seat and hunched his shoulders. "Sorry, I had a rough night," he said.

"That's good to hear," the driver said.

"Excuse me?" Ian said, a little incredulous.

"I'm a Red Sox fan. You're Ian Kinsler, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Ian said sullenly.

"You're murder on our pitching," the driver said.

"That's 'cause your pitching sucks balls," Ian said under his breath.

"What was that?" the driver said.

"Nothing," Ian said. "Look, I'm not really in the mood to talk right now, sorry."

"Figures," the driver muttered.

"I'm sorry you have a problem with me," Ian said, getting angrier. "Just fuckin' get me to the park, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the driver said, his heavy Boston accent grating on Ian's last nerves.

He reined in his temper with difficulty and hunkered down, texting a few teammates to let them know he was on his way.

The cab finally pulled into the parking lot and drove up to the player's entrance.

Ian looked at the meter, glaring at the driver, and reached for his wallet in his back pocket.

Of course it wasn't there.

"Fuck," Ian said.

"Oh, so it's like that, is it?" the driver said knowingly, as if he'd known from the moment he picked Ian up that he wouldn't be able to pay.

"Shut the fuck up. You'll get your fucking money, I just have to--hold on," Ian said. He dialed Mike on his phone. No answer, of course. The meter ticked up again.

"Can you stop the fucking meter?" Ian said angrily. "We're not even moving."

"Listen, Mister Kinsler," the driver said with sarcastic deference, "that thing's gonna run until you're ready to pay. That's the rules."

"Alright, alright," Ian said. He dialed Mike Napoli, and no answer there either. Everyone was probably already out on the field stretching and throwing. He was about to try Elvis when he saw someone come out of the player's entrance. Squinting a little to see who it was, he was relieved to see that it was indeed someone he recognized.

"Salty!" he shouted.

Salty turned. Ian could see he was holding his phone. He smiled and raised his hand in a wave, and then turned to say something into his phone. Ian could tell from what he was wearing that he wasn't going to be starting in game one.

Ian fumbled for the door handle and got out of the car. He saw Salty hang up the phone and pocket it, coming toward Ian.

"Hey," Salty said brightly, opening his arms.

 _Oh no,_ Ian thought, _he's gonna hug me._ Sure enough, Salty reached out and gathered Ian up into his arms. Ian returned the hug a little stiffly; Salty's hugs always made him feel extremely uncomfortable.

"You made it. Don't worry, you've still got time. How're things going? We didn't get a chance to talk yesterday," Salty continues. "I just came out here to see if I left some stuff in my car that my wife needs--"

"Yeah," Ian said quickly, interrupting Salty, "sorry, but can I ask you a huge favor? I was late getting out and I think I left my wallet in my room. Do you have any cash to pay the driver?"

"Oh," Salty said. "Yeah, sure. Let me just--I'll just go get my wallet," Salty said, turning to jog back in.

"Thanks," Ian called, turning to bend his head down and address the driver through the window. "I've gotta go in and get ready. He'll be back out with your money."

"Oh, no, you're not goin' anywhere until I get my money," the driver said.

"Are you fuckin' serious?" Ian said. "If anyone's good for it, it's him. I don't have time to stand here."

"I'll call the police if you leave, I swear I will."

"Wow. Okay. You're pathetic. I can't believe this. I'm taking down your cab number and reporting you."

"Reporting me for not letting you leave without paying your fare? Good luck with that."

"Unbelievable," Ian said. But there was nothing to do but wait for Salty to come back.

After an interminable five minutes he saw Salty emerge again.

"How much was it?" Salty said.

"Sixteen. Robbery. Be sure you get your change. That guy doesn't get a tip for shitty attitude."

"Hey," the driver said to Salty, "I'm a big fan. Saltalamacchiar, isn't it? That's a mouthful."

"Yeah," Salty said, smiling at him, and Ian rolled his eyes.

"Can I go now?" Ian said impatiently.

"Who cares?" the driver said.

Ian rolled his eyes and trotted into the player's entrance, leaving Salty to talk to his biggest fan.

He forgot about Salty and the cab driver pretty much directly after entering the tunnel. He made his way to the visitors' clubhouse and burst through the doors, hurrying to his locker to change.

"Good morning, princess," Napoli said, looking up and seeing Ian. He wasn't in the lineup for Game 1. "Good of you to join us."

"Fuck off," Ian said, putting on his uniform. "This is one day I wish I'd been left off the lineup. Nothing's going right. I think I'm dehydrated."

"Gatorade's over there," Napoli said.

Ian made his way over to where the bottles of Gatorade were stacked and picked up an orange one. He remembered that he needed to get his pills, so as he set off to find a trainer he unscrewed the lid of his Gatorade to take a drink. Right as he tilted his head back Kirkman rounded the corner and knocked right into Ian.

The Gatorade spilled all over Ian's face, drenching the front of his jersey and even down to his crotch. The whole bottle was emptied as Kirkman reached to try to catch it, basically holding it upside down right at Ian's middle.

"Oh, fuck, sorry," Kirkman said, brushing uselessly at the Gatorade.

"Wow," Ian said. His face was all sticky from the sugar.

Kirkman ran to get a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall. "Here," he said, dabbing at Ian.

"Just fucking--leave it," Ian said.

"Sorry, man," Kirkman said again.

Ian couldn't even muster a response that didn't involve giving Kirkman a pithy and extremely profane summary of his lack of coordination, alertness, and general deportment.

He stomped back to his locker, hoping his backup jersey was in his locker. It was, thankfully, but Ian had to go into the showers to rinse the sugar off of his face, crotch and cup. There was really nothing worse than a sticky, damp cup.

By the time he was done with that it was getting really close to game time, and his headache was getting worse. He shouted at a clubhouse attendant to get a trainer and tell him to bring his pills out to the field for him, then ran through the tunnel and out onto the field. His head throbbed a little more with each step, a kind of dull pressure ache all around, and the brightness of the sun didn't help. He'd forgotten his eye black, too, and resolved to go back in and put some on, as well as take a painkiller.

As he started stretching he felt a little twinge in his right ankle. It had been bothering him last week but after the off-day Ian had thought it was going away. Now it was back, apparently. He gritted his teeth, hoping that it would stay a twinge and nothing more.

The grounds crew were hosing off the warning track and Ian was still trying to do his sprints. The game was really close to starting and Ian still saw no sign of the trainer with his pills. His head was beginning to throb really badly, the light from the sun seeming to make it worse. The pain had coalesced into what felt like a sharp point in the very middle of his brain, and Ian shook his head, feeling the way the pain seemed to rattle around, making his stomach feel unsettled.

He stopped dead in the middle of the field, and the noise of the stadium, the loud music and the low roar of the crowds gathering in the stands began to feel unbearable. This was nothing like any of the headaches Ian had experienced before. He began to feel acutely nauseated. The quick cascade of worsening symptoms was completely unfamiliar, and he knew he had to get off the field quickly and back to a toilet because he was going to be sick. The nearest one was just inside, if he could make it that far, but when he opened his eyes to try to see the way in there were big spots in his vision. Suddenly his stomach churned and he felt the nausea get a lot worse. And then he heaved, throwing up right there on the field.

"Oh, sick," he croaked to himself, wiping at his mouth and wondering how many hundreds or thousands of people were seeing this happen. He thought he could make out a slight swell in the crowd noise but the pain in his head was blurring everything. He blinked down at the ground. There was a little orange puddle there in the grass, some thin acidic sludge from the remainder of what he'd eaten in the middle of the night mixed with the recently imbibed Gatorade.

He nearly keeled over then, but he suddenly became aware of someone jogging out toward him.

"Are you okay?" he heard someone say, and he didn't even have to look up to realize it was Salty. There was a hand at his back, and then Salty was shouting at someone. "Mani! Hey! Can you call someone to come out here and take care of Kinsler?" Salty must've been yelling to someone in the bullpen.

"I swear I'm not hungover," Ian said hoarsely, still leaning forward, wanting to just lie down on the grass then and there.

"I know. It's okay, you'll be fine," Salty said, rubbing Ian's back soothingly.

Strangely, Ian did feel a little better after having thrown up, though he was suddenly extremely tired. At least the spots were fading a little from his vision.

"Let's get some trainers out here to take you back in, huh?" Salty said. "I just looked up from where I was standing in the bullpen and you leaned right over and threw up."

"Yeah, I know, I was here," Ian said flatly. "My head just all of a sudden started hurting real bad and my vision went dark in the corners."

"Sounds like a migraine," Salty said. "I've gotten those a couple times. You'll feel better now that you've been sick." He rubbed Ian's back a few more times. "You should lie down in a dark room for a while. I'd carry you in myself but there's some people coming out to get you and they'll take care of you."

"I can walk," Ian said defiantly, although right then the idea of being carried sounded pretty great. He leaned into Salty a little, grateful that he was supporting Ian in staying upright.

Soon the trainers arrived with Wash, and they asked him some questions, Salty still hovering on the periphery all the while. The trainers walked Ian back to the dugout and Ian had a passing feeling of embarrassment that Salty had had to stand out there with Ian like he was a little kid who threw up on the playground. That was the second time Salty had helped him in a situation that day. It made Ian feel a strange sense of resentful gratitude. Salty was a good dude but why did he always have to be _around_? Ian remembered what it was like when Salty was still in Texas and always hovering around him. He'd get so annoyed with Salty but then any time he said anything short to him he was always overcome with horrible remorse. And realizing that Salty never seemed to get the hint to stay away just made Ian feel even worse. He didn't know what it was about Salty that made him feel so conflicted but it was something weird, and Ian preferred to avoid thinking about it.

Wash took him out of the lineup for both games that day, and they took Ian to a dark room and let him lie down for a while. Within 45 minutes, however, he was feeling a lot better. He drank some water and took an ibuprofen and then went out to watch the rest of the first game in the dugout.

"Hey, what happened to you?" Napoli said, ambling up to Ian. "They're already showing it on SportsCenter. That's gonna be everywhere."

"I don't even want to know," Ian said flatly. "I had a migraine. One of those freak things, I guess. It's pretty much gone now."

"And you went out there to run in the sun anyway?" Napoli said, chuckling.

"I didn't feel that bad until I got out there, and then everything happened so fast."

"I saw Mr. Good Guy run out there and help you."

"Yeah, where the fuck were you? My own teammates just sat there and laughed in the bullpen, am I right?" Ian said, somewhat coldly. Truthfully he did feel an edge of resentment at the fact that Salty had been the only one to get help for him.

"I didn't even see until he was out there patting you on the back."

"I don't really want to talk about it right now," Ian said, getting up to go hang over the railing.

The game was lackluster, as was usual for day games and double headers, and Ian was glad for the relative quiet, since he was still feeling a little bit sensitive. But then in the bottom of the eighth inning he suddenly noticed that Elvis was using Ian's glove.

Ian felt himself get extremely angry in an instant. Elvis often made a game of stealing Ian's stuff, and most of the time Ian didn't mind, knowing how to get his revenge on Elvis often enough - usually stealing his phone and sending embarrassing or dangerous texts to his girlfriends. But Ian was in no mood for hijinks today, and besides, Elvis had never gone so far as to take Ian's glove before. Gloves were sacred. Elvis knew that; everyone did. He probably just didn't care; had seen an opportunity to fuck with Ian during a game that didn't even really feel like a real game.

Ian didn't like anyone else using his glove or even picking it up. As he stood there watching, he got more and more angry. He'd always been too easy on Elvis, he thought. Fucking kid didn't know his place. How many years was Ian gonna have to be around before he got a little respect? His glove, bats, and cup were off limits, everyone knew that. Who did Elvis think he was?

When Elvis came back to the dugout after the inning was over Ian marched up to him. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he said.

Elvis laughed and ducked out of the way. "You noticed, finally," he said.

"Of course I fucking noticed, now give it back!" Ian reached for it but Elvis held it out of reach. "You fucker," Ian shouted. "I'm gonna have to break in a new one now. I can't use it after your sweaty hand has been inside it."

Elvis just laughed again and ran out of the way through the press of bodies.

"Watch out," Yorvit said when they caused him to splash his cup of water on himself as they ran by.

"You get back here, motherfucker!" Ian said, but Elvis was quick and nimble, knocking over a trash bin in front of Ian and causing Ian to trip and stumble over the debris that spilled out all over the floor of the dugout.

Ian nearly fell and he felt the twinge in his ankle again, but he finally cornered Elvis at the end of the dugout. Colby and Matt Harrison hurriedly tried to get out of the way but Ian swiped at Elvis' head and got his hat off, accidentally knocking it right into Matt Harrison's teeth. Harrison doubled over dramatically, clutching at his mouth. He'd never been the stoic type when it came to even minor bumps and bruises.

"Ow," he said.

"What, are you going to cry about it, Harriet?" Ian said nastily to Harrison as he hurled Elvis' cap over the dugout railing and out onto the field.

"Who pissed in your Cheerios?" Colby asked mildly.

"He stole my glove!" Ian protested, sounding childish even to his own ears.

"You will have to come get it if you want it back," Elvis said, still holding it out of reach.

"You fucker," Ian said again, and tackled Elvis, struggling to reach the glove. They wrestled for a moment and Ian pushed hard, forcing them to stagger sideways, knocking into the water cooler and tipping it over with a loud crash. It spilled its contents all over the floor and through the haze of his rage Ian heard Wash shouting.

"Break it the fuck up, you two," he said. "Is this fuckin' Fenway Park or is this bush league?" Finally Ian felt Josh pulling him away, and Beltre was doing the same with Elvis.

"I thought you had a goddamn migraine," Wash said. He looked mad, and Ian clenched his jaw. His eyes flicked involuntarily toward the camera on the dugout. Sure enough, it was trained right on him.

"You should know better than that," Wash continued. "Jesus, how old are you? Are you a professional? The men in this dugout are professionals."

 _I'm having a really bad day_ , Ian wanted to scream, but he couldn't embarrass himself any more than he already had.

"Now get the fuck in the clubhouse. I don't wanna see your face out here for the rest of the game. Elvis, give him his goddamn glove back and get out there. You're up after Mitch if this baseball game isn't getting in the way of your plans for this fine afternoon."

Ian stormed back into the clubhouse and got an ice pack for his ankle, relieving his feelings by playing Tetris on his phone for a while.

He listened to the remainder of the broadcast playing on the TV and Barnett and TAG referenced his on-field throwing up incident twice more within the span of one inning, as well as the tussle with Elvis in the dugout. Probably because the Red Sox were winning. Ian knew everyone was going to make a big deal out of everything and he'd get saddled with the blame for the loss without even having played. He didn't want to make himself available for comment after the game, so he went back into the massage room, which the press didn't have access to, to wait things out.

It was nearly an hour later when he realized he still hadn't taken his Ritalin. He thought longingly of the pill bottle sitting on the counter in the hotel bathroom. Maybe that was why he has been having such a shitty day. If only he'd woken up in time to shower and take his fucking pills. He wanted to start the day over. At that moment all he really wanted was to go back to his hotel room, lock the door, shut the blinds, turn off his phone, and sleep for twelve hours.

The door to the massage room was open and Mitch Moreland walked by, stopping when he espied Ian sitting inside. "Hey," he drawled. "Saltalamacchia is out in the clubhouse looking for you."

"What?" Ian said, lowering his phone.

"Salty is out there looking for you."

"Why?" Ian said blankly.

"How the fuck should I know? He just came in and asked where you were."

"I don't feel like talking to him. Tell him I'm in therapy or something."

"Okay," Mitch said, and then left.

Immediately after he turned away Ian wished he hadn't told Mitch to fob Salty off. He felt bad, and anyway, for some reason Salty was suddenly the only guy Ian could think of to whom talking wouldn't be a chore. But no, he told himself. He didn't have time for Salty or anyone. He needed to get focused, get his mind back on track after it had been derailed early on.

Finally he decided he needed to go find a trainer and get his Ritalin. Maybe if he took it he could convince Wash to put him in the lineup in that night's game. His headache was pretty much all gone and he probably just needed to play to shake off the malaise that he'd apparently woken up with.

Ian found Wash and begged and pleaded. He threatened and sulked and cajoled, but to no avail.

"You think I've already forgot that scene you and Elvis put on in the dugout this morning? You are not yo'self today, and I don't want you in my lineup."

"But--"

"I said no. Think about what you done and why I cannot in good conscience put you in a professional Major League Baseball team lineup tonight. I got to have all my men healthy, I got to have all my men focused, I got to have all my men ready to act like they been around a while. You understand me?"

"Yes, sir," Ian said, biting back his retort. "Well, if you need me to pinch-hit or anything..."

"Are you tellin' me how to manage my own team, son?" Wash said, staring at Ian over the top of his glasses.

"No, sir," Ian said.

"Good."

Ian left and headed for the toilet, needing to take a dump. When he finished, he pushed the flush lever and the toilet filled but did not flush. Instead, more sewage filled up the bowl and began to look like it was going to overflow.

"Fuck," Ian said incredulously. "Fuck! Um, help? Anyone? BOB! RANDY! ANYONE? I NEED SOME HELP IN HERE, THE TOILET IS BACKING UP IN A MAJOR WAY--Oh, shit."

Several attendants came running in. The smell was pretty bad with the additional sewage filling it up, and the toilet suddenly spilled over.

"Perfect," Ian said. "Fenway. Best fucking ballpark in America, am I right? Is your plumbing celebrating one hundred years too?"

"Sorry about this, Mr. Kinsler," Bob, the head clubhouse attendant, said ruefully. "This particular one has been acting up a lot recently. Shit, I better call facilities--"

"Maybe you should've put an Out of Order sign up," Ian said, practically shouting again as they all backed away, trying to avoid the filthy water.

Elvis came running in just then. "Wow," he said. "My God. What did you eat, man?"

"It was already broken," Ian said defensively, when any other day he probably would've played along.

"Hey everyone!" Elvis shouted, running back into the clubhouse. "Ian has broken the toilet with his big shit!"

Ian closed his eyes and sighed hard. It wasn't so much that he was embarrassed, but this would mean endless ribbing and jokes about his bowel movements for at least the rest of the day if not for the rest of the month.

Sure enough, all afternoon the guys gave him crap about it, making lots of poop puns and suggesting Ian had obviously been stopped up too long to make a toilet overflow.

By game time Ian was heartily sick of everyone. He'd finally taken his Ritalin but he still had no appetite and hadn't been able to get much down for dinner, between the fresh memory of throwing up earlier in the day and all the literal shit-talking that had been happening. He went out to throw for a while during warm-up, but then some drunk fans kept shouting obscenities and taunting him, and then they had the gall to ask him for autographs. He turned to stare at them for a moment and saw that they were holding out balls and pens. Fucking pathetic.

Ian wanted to get away and go somewhere quiet. He sat at the end of the bench in the dugout alone, everyone giving him a wide berth, and stared out at the field. He could see Salty walking the starting pitcher back to the home dugout, looking like some kind of armored body guard.

Josh came over to Ian at one point during the top of the first inning and put his hand on Ian's shoulder, patting it. Ian had a weird impulse to shrug it off, annoyed even by sympathy, or perhaps pity. He didn't really want to acknowledge Josh's presence so Josh drifted away again.

The game actually turned out to be pretty close, but Ian, sulking at being left out and feeling exhausted and weak, didn't have much energy to get fired up about it. He saw Salty strike out his first time up, hit into double play his second time up, and then strike out again his third time up, and the crowd booed him. Ian felt bad for him, but then shook it off, telling himself it was just a result of the awful day he'd had.

They were one run down in the top of the eighth with Napoli on second base, and suddenly Wash told Ian he was going to pinch hit.

"You up for it?" Wash said.

"Yeah!" Ian said, standing up quickly.

"Then get in there," Wash said.

Ian hurried to get his helmet on, but when he looked for his batting gloves he couldn't find them.

"Where are my batting gloves?" he demanded of the batboy, though they really weren't his responsibility. Ian had probably forgotten to get them because he thought there was no way he would be playing that day.

"I--I don't know," he said. "They aren't in the cubby there?"

"Are you new at this?" Ian said, which was rude, but he couldn't believe even this was going to go wrong.

"No, sir," the batboy said. Ian felt a little twinge of remorse. He'd always told himself he would try his best to never be that guy, the one who took out his feelings on people who didn't really deserve it. This batboy looked very young, too. They were getting younger every year.

Ian huffed and rifled through the cubbies, but he had to get up and start stretching out. There wasn't time to go back in the clubhouse and look in his locker. He yelled for a trainer to go in and look for the gloves for him and then put on someone else's gloves and went out to swing with the donuts.

The gloves he had on were too big, he realized as he swung the bat around to loosen up. When Moreland flied out, Ian looked unhappily back toward the dugout entrance, but no one was coming out to bring his own gloves to him.

He walked morosely out to the plate, looking back, hoping at the last minute the batboy would run out with his gloves. He was so absorbed in this that he tripped and couldn't catch himself, and ended up face down in the dirt.

For a moment he didn't want to get up. He heard a mixture of jeering, oohing, and laughter from the crowd.The humiliations of the day just wouldn't end.

"You alright there?" he heard someone say above him.

It was Salty again. Of course.

Ian sighed and pushed himself up off the ground. Salty was bent over Ian, looking down at him with his hands resting just above his knees, and he was smiling, mask up. The umpire was standing a few feet away with his hands on his hips.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Ian said, waving back to the dugout so that no one would come out to check on him.

"You aren't gonna need to throw up again, are you?" Salty said as they walked over to the plate.

"No," Ian said witheringly.

"Just checking," Salty said, and then he pulled his mask down, crouching into position.

Ian told himself to just forget everything that had happened, to focus. He squinted out at where the fielders were positioned and then zeroed in on the pitcher.

The first pitch was a ball, and Ian stepped back. Then he flicked his eyes over to Dave Anderson, who was signing for a bunt.

Ian was skeptical, but when he turned to the dugout Jackie Moore was giving him the same sign, so he dutifully prepared himself. The pitch came and Ian put down the bunt. He could tell immediately he hit it a little too hard, but he took off as fast as he could toward first base. He was almost there when he suddenly felt that twinge in his ankle. It caught him off guard and slowed him up a fraction of a step. He saw A-Gon pick the ball and hold it up just as he touched the bag, and the umpire called him out. The inning was over.

Ian cursed, furiously flinging his helmet, shinguard and gloves on the ground.

"You okay?" Elvis said as he brought Ian his glove and hat.

"Fine," Ian snapped.

A trainer jogged out and asked Ian some questions about his ankle, but Ian was curt and uncommunicative with his answers and the trainer was forced to go away again when the bottom of the inning started.

The rest of the game ensured that it was one to forget. Ian made an error and two more runs scored. Perfect end to a perfect day, he thought angrily. Losing two games in one day always felt like horrible punishment, but today it hurt even worse.

He refused press after the game again, going straight for the showers and standing for a long time under the warm spray. His ankle was throbbing a little bit; he probably needed to start wearing the brace again, but that was depressing. There was still more than a month left in the season and he'd been hoping he could get to the end without having to endure significant discomfort with it.

"What's up with you today?" Mike said, folding up some clothes to put in his bag as Ian changed into the shorts and shirt he'd thrown on to come to the park that morning.

"Just one of those days, I guess," Ian said.

"Even Elvis is giving you a lot of space."

"He'd better," Ian said. "I'm not in the mood today."

"Just go back to the hotel, take an Alka-Seltzer and get some sleep."

"I was planning on that, pretty much," Ian said, annoyed even that he was being given advice.

"Fine," Mike said coolly, probably sensing that Ian didn't want to talk. He turned away, and Ian was relieved until he then started to feel annoyed that everyone seemed to be ignoring him.

Elvis was talking so loudly, just like he always did, but of course that night it was particularly grating. Ian looked around the clubhouse, suddenly feeling acutely that he'd had enough of this, like he needed a change.

 _This clubhouse is great,_ he reminded himself, but more out of habit than anything. Everything was always the same. They all listened to the same music, told the same jokes, laughed about the same stuff. He knew most of these guys too well by now, able to predict just about everything they were going to say, and most every day he played right along but tonight it just seemed intolerable.

He couldn't help remembering everything awful that had happened over the course of the day, from the stubbed toe in his hotel room to the last rude, triumphant insults the Fenway crowd had shouted at him when he bobbled the ball and made the bad throw that allowed the runs to score. Now his ankle was really hurting on top of all the other usual aches and pains, he hadn't really had enough food, and the sensitivity from the migraine hadn't really gone away yet even though the pain had.

More than anything, this day had made Ian feel old and sorry for himself. He was still making rookie mistakes and getting into situations that made him look immature and undignified, and yet he felt jaded and tired about the people he saw every day.

As he waited for the team bus to arrive he went out into the tunnel. He wanted to call his daughter, hear her voice and talk to her about her day, but he knew that if he did Tess would answer and use it as an excuse to start in on him. On any other day he could've dealt with it, but he didn't trust himself today, didn't know that he could keep from saying all the things to her that he would be unable to ever take back.

So he looked at pictures of both his kids on his phone. Flipping to each one made him feel a little better, and he even found himself smiling at the one of Rian trying to teach Jack how the building blocks should be arranged, and the one where Jack had latched onto the side bar of his play pen with his nascent teeth.

He didn't know how long he'd been gazing at the pictures and smiling foolishly at them before he sensed someone approaching, so he put his phone down and looked up.

It was Salty. He was wearing an ochre-colored button down shirt, carrying a duffel bag, and his hair was damp, the curls very tightly wound.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi," Ian said shortly.

"You still hangin' around here?"

"Waiting for the bus," Ian said.

Salty looked at him blankly for a moment. "Um. I think your bus left about ten minutes ago."

"What?" Ian said, groaning. "Shit. Fucking _perfect_. I cannot believe the day I've had."

"Did you send someone back to get your wallet? Can you get a cab or something?"

"No," Ian said. "Didn't figure I'd need it if I could get the bus back."

"Why don't I just give you a ride," Salty said.

Ian reddened a little bit. Was Salty going to come to his rescue again? "If you could just loan me enough for cab fare again I will pay you back tomorrow," he said. "I'll have it together then. I hope."

"Nah, it's no problem. I'm not in a hurry to get home anyway. The wife and kids are in Florida."

Ian looked at Salty in surprise. He'd always known Salty to do everything with his family. They even came with him to Spring Training. This was a big part of the reason none of the guys really made friends with Salty. While many of them were family guys, there was something a little different about the way he juggled his family life and his membership on a team.

"They aren't here with you?"

"No. Ash wanted to go stay with her parents for a while."

Ian felt more than a mild curiosity at what could be behind this statement, but he decided to be tactful. For now. "Well if you really don't mind..."

"I don't mind," Salty said, smiling brightly. His eyes in the dim light of the hallway looked strangely bright.

Ian stared, forgetting for a moment what Salty was responding to, but then he collected himself. "Thanks. Although having me in the car might get you in an accident. Everything I've done today, something has gone wrong."

"I'll be careful," Salty said, reaching up to pat Ian on the arm briefly.

So he followed Salty out to his SUV and climbed up into the passenger seat.

"Are there gonna be people wanting you to sign stuff?" Ian asked as they drove toward the entrance.

"Probably. There always are. You want me to leave the windows up?"

"Yeah," Ian said, relieved that Salty wasn't going to stop to sign.

"I remember pretty much always bein' able to drive straight out of the park in Arlington, at least when I first got there," Salty said as they drove out through the small crowd.

"It's not easy anymore," Ian said absently, hunkering down in the seat. "There are lots more fans and autograph hounds since the World Serieses."

"You must like that," Salty said.

"What do you mean?" Ian said, Salty's comment making him feel strangely defensive.

"Nothing. I just remember what a bummer it was back before anyone came to the games and we were out there in 120-degree heat playing for an empty ballpark."

"Oh," Ian said. "Well, yeah. It's better now."

They finally got away from the throng and Ian told Salty which hotel he was staying at, so Salty headed in that direction.

"Have you eaten?" Salty asked.

"Not really," Ian said. "I haven't been too hungry today." But immediately after saying that, he did feel a little growl of hunger in his stomach, the first all day.

"C'mon, you need to eat something," Salty said.

"I've eaten some protein bars and half a sandwich," Ian said. "And I had a glass of milk."

"That's all you've had all day?" Salty asked.

Ian thought it over. "Yeah," he said.

"Let me take you somewhere to eat," Salty said.

"No," Ian said. "I'll just get room service or something."

"Aw, c'mon," Salty said.

"I don't even have my wallet and you've already paid my cab fare today. Anyway, I don't want to go anywhere you'll be recognized."

"I ain't that famous."

"A Red Sox in Boston? Of course you are."

"Nah," Salty said.

Ian was quiet, staring out the window. To be honest, ordering room service by himself did sound kind of depressing. He rested his forehead against the glass and breathed against it.

"How about this," Salty said. "I'll take you to my place and we can order a pizza or something and watch a movie. You can even spend the night if you want. You'd have your own bedroom. It'll be more comfortable than any hotel."

Ian didn't really know what to say. It was an almost extravagant offer, a strange one for a guy to extend to another guy when they weren't even really good friends.

Salty spoke again. "My place gets so quiet," he said.

Ian turned to look over at Salty. For the first time he realized that maybe Salty wasn't just being helpful to Ian. Maybe he was lonely and wanted someone to hang out with for a while. Even someone who was the laughingstock of Major League Baseball today. And who had never really been all that nice to him, Ian thought, feeling guilty.

The thought of spending another night in that horrible hotel bed wasn't exactly appealing, Ian reflected. Could staying with Salty be any worse? Probably not. And he could get his stuff in the morning.

"Okay," Ian said finally. He'd thought when he got in the car that he couldn't wait for the day to be over, but here he was agreeing to make it even longer.

It was a pretty quick drive to Salty's condo. When they got there Salty turned the lights on and Ian could see that there were still lots of his girls' toys everywhere, as if the whole condo were a playhouse for them. Ian stood awkwardly in Salty's kitchen looking at the pictures of his family stuck to the side of the refrigerator while Salty ordered a pizza.

"What do you want on it?" Salty asked.

"Um. Peppers, sausage, pepperoni, onions. Tomato. Olives, I like olives."

Salty dutifully repeated all of these ingredients to the pizzeria over the phone.

"And breadsticks," Ian interjected. "Do they have breadsticks?"

"And some breadsticks," Salty said into the phone, and then hung up a few moments later. "It'll be about half an hour, they said. This place is pretty good."

He put his phone down on the counter and then just stood there gazing at Ian and smiling.

"So," Ian said awkwardly, wanting to fill the silence. "You liking Boston?"

"I like it fine," Salty said, raising his arms up to stretch. He really did have a very broad chest, Ian thought out of the blue. "It's a little crowded. Can't say I don't enjoy getting away from it during the offseason, though."

"You're from...where, Tampa?"

"West Palm Beach," Salty said.

"Don't think I've ever been there," Ian said. "I'm from Tucson."

"Yeah, I remember that."

"Oh," Ian said.

Another silence ensued. Ian didn't really know where to look, so he got his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it to see if he'd missed any calls.

"Do you want a beer or something?" Salty offered, opening up the refrigerator. "I've got PBR. There's a couple of IPAs in here that someone brought me one time, but I don't really drink those..."

"Actually, do you have any Coke?" Ian said.

"Sure," Salty said. He got two cans out of the fridge and handed one to Ian.

They cracked them open and took a few sips.

Ian eyed Salty, and then said, "Hey, I wanted to thank you. For, you know, helping me out today."

"No problem," Salty said. "Seemed like every time I looked up you were right there."

"Well, I appreciate it."

"No worries. We go way back, don't we?" Salty said, smiling again.

"Yeah," Ian said, but he felt a little strange about it. They'd _known_ each other for years, certainly. But Ian would never have called Salty a friend, exactly. Then again, none of his friends had been around today when he needed help. "Man, today sucked," he said.

"Yeah, migraines are no fun."

"It wasn't just that," Ian said. "You don't even know the half of it."

"What all happened?" Salty asked.

So Ian recounted everything bad that had happened, and Salty looked both amused and sympathetic. When Ian got to the clogged toilet, Salty laughed. Ian smiled himself, then, and felt a little better about everything.

"And then when I fell flat on my face right on the field, you were there for that, too," Ian reminded Salty.

"Hey, it could happen to anyone," Salty said. "Do you remember the time I went out to hit and they had to call time because I'd put the wrong helmet on?"

"No," Ian said.

"Maybe that was in Atlanta, I don't remember. I thought it was in Texas. But yeah, I took the first pitch and I was like, 'Wow, I saw that ball really well!' And then the umpire called time and told me I had to go back and get the right helmet on. I wanted to walk back to that dugout and straight into the clubhouse."

"But that's not even that bad! You're a switch hitter. Knowing me I'd probably grab the wrong helmet all the time."

"It was still embarrassing. I was young, I wanted to get everything right. I always double check, now."

Ian tilted his head at Salty. "Do you ever miss being in Texas?" he asked after a moment.

Salty frowned a little, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm happy where I'm at. I think any place has its ups and downs. I try not to think about wanting to be somewhere else."

Ian nodded, looking down at his Coke. He was still in talks with the team about extending his contract, and nine days out of ten he wanted to stay in Texas. But on that tenth day, like today, he wondered what it would be like to go somewhere new, to learn a new place. Salty had done it three times already -- Atlanta, Texas, Boston. He was younger but he seemed older to Ian, sometimes. Like he'd seen more, been through so much more. Maybe for Salty a day like today wouldn't have been so hard, because he knew how to roll with the punches, knew how to absorb those trivial tribulations that could so easily skew Ian's whole attitude. Salty just seemed like a bigger person, literally and figuratively. Ian frowned down at his Coke.

"I miss some things," Salty said abruptly.

Ian said, looking up. "Like what?"

They stared at each other for a moment, a strange, tense span of time that Ian didn't understand until suddenly Salty came forward so he was standing right in front of Ian.

Ian's eyes widened as Salty gently put his hand up to cup Ian's face. "Sometimes you just look so sad," he said cryptically, and then he leaned in and kissed Ian.

It was brief, a quick press of his lips against Ian's, but Ian felt a big dip in his middle like he'd never felt before. Salty drew back almost immediately, looking down at him, his eyes so bright and open.

For a second Ian imagined leaning up and drawing Salty back down toward him again, but his limbs felt like they'd frozen.

"I've wanted to do that for a while," Salty said, almost apologetic as he took another step back.

Ian licked his lips almost involuntarily, as if he could recapture the taste of Salty there.

And then finally his rational brain caught up with the situation. A hundred thoughts suddenly flooded in. He wondered what he was supposed to do. Was this some kind of prank? Was he supposed to storm out now? Was he gay? Was _Salty_ gay? And most pressing of all, what would it take to get Salty to try it again so Ian could tell for sure whether he liked it or not?

"Are you okay?" Salty said finally, after the silence drew out and Ian still hadn't moved or spoken a word, just standing there clutching his Coke and staring.

"Do it again," Ian blurted. And then he blushed fiery red, embarrassed at how awkward and juvenile he sounded.

Salty's face split into a big grin, and he came forward again, gently removing the Coke can from Ian's claw-like nervous grip and setting it on the countertop behind him. Then he took Ian's face between both his hands, this time, and gazed down at him. Ian's heart was beating so fast, each pulse roaring in his ears, and then Salty leaned in, catching Ian's lips with his.

Ian flinched back a little, but Salty followed him, opening him up as his hands dragged down over Ian's neck to hold his shoulders. Ian brought his own hands up slowly, and when he felt Salty's tongue touch his he felt for a moment like his knees would buckle and he wouldn't be able to stay upright, so he clutched at Salty, holding on tight, feeling the muscles in Salty's back shift when he moved to press closer into Ian, backing him right up into the counter.

Ian was totally lost. Nothing had ever felt like this before. He felt overwhelmed and excited all at once, Salty's big body pressed up against him, shielding him and covering him up, his beard scratching Ian's face, his breath warm against Ian's skin. Ian was so exhilarated, in some other place, rushing through space and time to some other dimension, when suddenly the doorbell rang and everything came to an abrupt halt.

Salty broke off, looking toward the door. "Sounds like the pizza's here," he said.

"Yeah," Ian croaked.

Salty turned back to Ian and smiled at him. He leaned forward quickly and kissed the tip of Ian's nose, and then he went to answer the buzzer.

Ian reached up to touch his mouth, still tingling from the scratch of Salty's beard.

He heard Salty pay the delivery guy and then he came back, holding the box in one hand.

"You hungry?" he said, smiling again. "C'mon, let's see if there's anything on TV."

Ian wordlessly followed Salty out into the den, and Salty sat down in one corner of the couch, setting the box on the coffee table and turning the TV on. Ian didn't know exactly where or how to sit, given that Salty had had his tongue down Ian's throat not even five minutes ago. That changed things. Didn't it?

He sat down tentatively at the other end of the couch, his back very straight and his hands resting on his knees.

Salty looked over at him. "You don't gotta sit all the way over there. C'mere."

He held out his big hand, waving Ian over.

Ian couldn't help smiling himself, then, and his face split in a wide grin as he crawled across the wide expanse of the couch to settle right up against Salty's side. Salty reached for the pizza box and put it on his lap, opening it up. They both took a slice and started eating. Ian munched happily, suddenly ravenous.

Salty flicked through some channels and came to an old movie. "Hey, it's _The Big Country_ ," he said. "You seen this?"

"No," Ian said, his mouth full.

"It's a good one," Salty said, putting the remote down and draping his arm around Ian's shoulders. "There ain't too many things that pizza and a good movie can't fix."

"Yeah," Ian said agreeably. Pizza and a movie and maybe some making out with someone totally unexpected. Maybe later he could stop and think about what all this meant, where it was going, what he even wanted. But right now, nestling up next to Salty felt pretty good, and suddenly all the other stuff that had happened that day didn't matter at all.

He fell asleep resting against Salty a few hours later, and that was the first night Ian realized that he didn't need fluffy pillows and a good mattress to wake up the next morning feeling optimistic and eager for whatever the day might bring.


End file.
